Backlash

Four

Following her conversation with Henry Christie about Mo Khan’s death, DI Jane Roscoe had not been looking forward to her next encounter with Henry with any degree of anticipation. In fact she was dreading it. She was sharply aware that their embryonic relationship had got off to a very rocky start right from the moment she had first seen him when the garage door had opened, and her driver, DS Mark Evans, had said through the side of his mouth, ‘That’s Henry Christie, boss,’ and she had not even dared look at him as she was driven past. Then there had been the frosty, wordless encounter in the CID office when Henry’s gaze had settled on her oh so fleetingly with an expression that seemed to scream at her, ‘I’d like to tear your heart out with my fingernails.’ And lastly, the blatantly unethical request she had made to him, which Henry, much to her surprise and shock, had agreed to. Because of all these things and more, Roscoe knew that their association would be edgy at best, most probably doomed.

Although she was certain Henry would not have believed it she had not gone out deliberately to poach his job. It had been offered to her out of the blue by ACC (Operations) Fanshaw-Bayley. Apparently he had decided on a whim that she was the right person for the job, though it was never explicitly articulated to her why she was that person, but such was the way the Constabulary worked: mysteriously.

As anyone else would, she had grabbed the opportunity with both hands. Not knowing Henry Christie personally, though having heard of him by reputation, and being unaware of any of the background to the situation, how could she have refused the offer?

At the time she had been a uniformed inspector at Chorley, to the south of the county, living in Fulwood, near Preston. Travelling to Blackpool, in the opposite direction, therefore, presented her with no real problems. In fact it was an easier journey — motorway all the way. She had been working long, tiring shifts which were causing serious ructions within her married life, and saw little of her solicitor husband. She knew the DI’s job would also mean long hours and would not solve any problems at home, but at least she would be happier at work because having spent much of her time in the CID, both as a DC and a DS, she had always wanted to progress to detective inspector.

Her feelings for the job itself did not change when she got to Blackpool, but she soon discovered that her appointment was not a popular one, particularly within the CID office. And it was all down to one man: Henry Christie, even though he wasn’t even there in the flesh. Everyone regarded him as some sort of icon. But to Roscoe, his reputation hung around like a bad smell.

He was worshipped by the DCs and could do no wrong in their eyes. Within hours of starting the job Roscoe knew she was on a hiding to nothing and that everything she said and did would be judged by the benchmark of Henry Christie. The man whose job, she overheard one detective remark, Roscoe had ‘fucking nicked’.

She had rehearsed numerous times for the inevitable meeting with Henry. She had practised nonchalant facial expressions and devil-may-care body language and one or two sharp-tongued phrases which would put him slap-bang in his place. But all her good intentions had deserted her when the moment finally came. She’d become like an overawed dithering schoolgirl unable to think of the words to finish her little speech about the Khans. Then she had been so completely taken aback by Henry’s unexpected reaction she had made that stupid, inane closing comment. Where the hell had that come from? ‘I didn’t ask for this posting, I was given it.’ Jesus. She might as well have rolled over on her back like a submissive puppy and given in there and then. She had been furious with herself, mentally kicking her own arse down the corridor after the meeting and gritting her teeth to stop snarling, because, without trying, Henry had firmly taken the psychological upper hand. And, whether it was true or not, she perceived herself to be in his debt. She owed him one. It was a hole she had unthinkingly dug for herself, fallen into and didn’t know how to climb out of.

As she waited for Henry to come to her office to give her the result of the ID parade, she fidgeted, wondering how to play it to get back on top, how she should manipulate Henry, what the strategy should be.

She reached for the Khan/Costain file which contained all the statements taken so far and opened it, plugged in her little travel kettle and made a mug of tea, no sugar, skimmed milk. She switched on her laptop on the desk and slotted an audio CD into the drive, volume low.

This was how it would be when Christie showed his face: she would be concentrating deeply, reading the evidence, brew in hand, Handel’s ‘Water Music’ just audible, drifting softly out of the tiny speakers. She would be halfway down a page, glance up at him as he entered, show slight annoyance and say, in a friendly way, ‘Just give me a second, will you?’ She would point to a chair and pretend to continue to get to the end of whatever it was she was reading. Then she would close the file, look up at him, having kept him waiting — albeit for a very short time — and allow him to speak. It was a good plan, she thought wickedly.

But it never came to fruition. Firstly because the waiting was intolerable. She began clock-watching. And a watched clock never damn well moves, does it?

She finished her tea and re-read the file twice. Then she needed to pee. The urgency to do so increased slowly but inexorably.

Forty-five minutes. Just what the fuck was going on down there? Her bladder seemed to be bloating to the size and weight of a medicine ball.

Almost an hour. No sign. Shit.

She tossed the file back into her in-tray with an angry flick of the wrist. It missed, skittered across the desk, and fell on the floor fanning the contents out across the carpet. She surveyed her handiwork, her right leg shaking rhythmically.

‘He’s getting to you again,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t let him. . don’t. .’

There was just a cold dribble of tea remaining in her cup. She sucked it out with a vulgar slurp, banged the mug back down and stood up abruptly. Suddenly there was an incredible itch on her rib cage underneath her left boob. It screamed out to be scratched. She went for it. Flipped open a button on her blouse and inserted a hand, her fingernails easing the irritation, only to experience another itch, this time at the top of her right leg below the cheek of her backside. Sod’s law, Roscoe thought. No doubt Henry Christie would walk in through the door to find me scratching away like mad, contorted like a bloody baboon.

He did not arrive.

Over an hour gone now.

Roscoe made her way around the desk and began to pick up the scattered papers from the file — and it was then Henry came into the room as, on her hands and knees, Roscoe was at full cat-like stretch underneath her desk, reaching for that last sheet of paper beyond her fingertips.

She heard the office door open behind her. She closed her eyes momentarily, an expletive formed silently on her lips. Unsaid but definitely there. She could sense Henry Christie standing behind her, gazing down at her slightly overweight rear end which was stuck up in the air like an offering to the gods. She waited a beat. Waited for the smart-aleck remark which would surely come. She could guess what it was going to be.

But there was nothing. Silence.

Roscoe withdrew from under the desk, pushed herself to her feet and brushed herself down. ‘Sorry about that.’ She could feel the prickle of redness in her cheeks.

‘That’s OK,’ Henry said. ‘Costain didn’t show up for the ID parade, so I’ve sent everyone packing. The Khans are waiting for you in the front foyer. I haven’t let on about Mo. Thought I’d leave it for you.’

‘Right, thanks Henry.’

He gave a short nod and paused briefly before spinning on his heels and leaving.

Roscoe stood there, lips parted.

For the second time that evening, Henry Christie had confounded her expectations. Now he really was beginning to irritate her.

Ten minutes later she was being driven by Dave Seymour to the Shoreside Estate. In the back of the car were Saeed and Naseema Khan. Roscoe was taking them home.

Immediately after Henry had gone, Roscoe had spoken to the brother and sister in a quiet waiting room and broken the tragic news to them about their father. Saeed had taken it like a stomach punch — badly. Naseema’s grief, if there was any at all, had been more controlled and dignified.

Roscoe, who had been thinking about her bum sticking up in the air, shook the picture out of her mind and looked over her shoulder at the Khans in the back seat of the CID car. Saeed was doubled over, face in hands, head between his knees, rocking back and forth, uttering guttural howls of anguish. Naseema was sitting staidly next to him, a cool hand resting on his back, patting him.

Roscoe gave Naseema a wan smile, which she ignored. Roscoe settled down into her seat as Seymour turned the car into Shoreside. She was wondering how the family would take the news of Mo’s death. Unless they already knew, of course. That was a distinct possibility. Her eyes scanned the wet pavements which glistened under the halogen lighting of the few street lamps which were still intact and working. She peered down dark alleyways into the black shadows between houses, but she was not really concentrating on what she was looking at — her mind still stuck on Henry Christie — until she spotted the first unusual movement.

‘Stop, Dave,’ she said quickly, using a chopping motion of the hand to reinforce the order. Seymour pulled in.

‘Back up a few feet. I want to get a look up that alley we just passed. Thought I saw something.’

Saeed raised his head, his cheeks were smeared with tears. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Don’t know yet. We won’t be a second, then we’ll get you home.’

Seymour coaxed the unwilling gear lever into reverse and backed up to the entrance to the alley, one of numerous rat-runs which criss-crossed the estate. They were often used by kids to rob other kids of their Reeboks, or grannies of their purses, and to then evade the cops when pursued. Roscoe’s eyes probed through the rain, shaded by her hands cupped over her brow.

There was a quick flash of torchlight. Some movement. Several people were up there. Doing what?

Then they were gone.

‘Kids.’ Seymour spat — just another spectrum of society he despised.

‘Mm,’ Roscoe agreed without certainty, a funny feeling in her bones. ‘C’mon, let’s get these people home.’

A couple of minutes later the car drew up outside the general store. It was a large, low-roofed, purpose-built shop, with living accommodation at the rear. It was part of a row of other smaller shop units, one of which was a fish and chip shop, the others were boarded up. Mo Khan’s shop had once been part of the Spar chain until he took it over to join the growing number of his shops scattered throughout Lancashire. They all opened from six until midnight. Tonight, even though there was a family crisis, the shop was open and trading.

Roscoe got out of the car and opened Naseema’s door, scanning the area. Opposite the shop was a small grassed area with a children’s playground. The swings had all been dismantled and only the frames remained, rather like the skeletons of dinosaurs. Beyond that was a curve of houses, quasi-semis, all council owned. A few were occupied, most were boarded up, others just burnt-out shells. Shoreside was not an estate people clamoured to live on; it was one of the poorest and most deprived in the region, if not the country. Unemployment was sky high, crime rife.

Roscoe felt uneasy. She knew the place was tense because of the Khan/Costain confrontation. Standing outside the shop she could almost taste the atmosphere. It was quiet — too quiet. She didn’t like it, her instincts nagged at her.

Naseema got out followed by Saeed. Seymour opened his door, but Roscoe held the top of it, preventing him from moving. ‘Stay with the car, Dave, I won’t be long.’

‘Why?’

‘Humour me, OK? There’s something buzzing round here and I don’t want to come back to a damaged motor. And don’t fall asleep.’

Seymour looked round, puzzled, wondering what he had missed, but saw nothing. He resettled his broad posterior on the driver’s seat, actually relieved he did not have to go into the Khans’ home. He hated being surrounded by coloured people. He prayed he would not be given the job of family liaison officer.

Roscoe followed Naseema and Saeed inside the shop.

The family already knew and Roscoe found herself at the centre of a bereaved family at its most emotionally charged.

Mo Khan’s widow was sobbing and wailing hysterically on the sofa, wringing her hands and beating her fists into cushions. Naseema immediately went to comfort her, while maintaining her own cool, cold, facade. Two of her sons were incandescent with rage. They paced the living room like Bengal tigers, muttering angrily, punching the air. A third son, the eldest, sat quietly on an armchair, watching the others while smoking a pungent cigarette. Then there was Saeed, the youngest, thrown into this vortex, a live wire, bursting with tension, vowing revenge.

All in all, a volatile mixture.

Much of what Roscoe heard was in Urdu. Some English was spoken obviously for her benefit. The talk was of retribution. Justice. Racism. Bloodshed. Death.

Roscoe knew she had to exercise some authority but it was difficult to know where to begin. She had to lay down the law, tell them to keep it cool, keep a lid on it, let the police do their job, make promises, reassure them. . for what good it would do. She picked on the brother seated in the armchair. He was the oldest and appeared to be most in control of himself.

The rain had stopped, but the car was still misted up on the inside. Bloody crappy police cars, Seymour thought and turned the fan heater up a couple of notches. The windscreen started to clear very slowly.

He leaned back. His right hand dropped to the side of the seat and fumbled with the recline knob. He turned it and the seat angled back a few degrees. Might as well be as comfortable as possible, he thought shuffling his bulk. He switched on the car radio and found a nice, jazzy station, pumping up the volume so he could hear it over the clatter of the de-mister.

He was pretty whacked. The long day and the recently devoured kebab was having a somnolent effect on him. His eyelids drooped heavily. He drifted into a light sleep and his chin sagged heavily onto his chest. A loud snore jarred him awake for a brief moment before his eyes clicked shut again. This time his chin fell gently. He was gone. A grunting sound came from somewhere in his nose as his breathing became heavy.

So he did not see them coming. He had no chance.

Mo Khan’s eldest son was called Rafiq, almost thirty, now the head of the family and its various businesses. Roscoe managed to manoeuvre him away from his relatives, into the back of the shop behind the counter where she could speak to him alone.

The shop was quiet, only a couple of customers browsing. A young Asian girl was working the till and reading a magazine.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Rafiq said before Jane Roscoe had a chance to begin. ‘Don’t take the law into your own hands. Let the police sort it out. I know, I know.’ He dismissed her with a contemptuous wave. ‘I also know that you are institutionally racist and do not care one bit about us.’

‘That’s not true,’ Roscoe said defensively. ‘I care and I will do my very best for you. I won’t labour the point about the other things you said. You know full well there is a suspect for your father’s murder. We’re going to arrest him. So leave the justice to us, Rafiq. It’s our job, not yours or your family’s.’

‘I hear what you say, Mrs Copper, but I don’t know if I can hold my brothers back — or even if I want to. They are very angry. The Costains have been at our throats ever since we came here and you have done nothing to protect us — and now this has happened. You cannot be too critical if we do take the law into our own hands, can you, lady?’

From the research Roscoe had done very recently into the Khan/Costain situation, Rafiq’s version of the conflict between the two families was not entirely accurate. However, she didn’t want to argue the toss now.

‘We would be critical of anyone who takes the law into their own hands, under whatever circumstance, under whatever provocation. I’m asking you to give us enough time to sort this matter out. I don’t want to have to come and arrest you or any of your family at a time of grief. Understand?’

Rafiq looked her up and down.

‘I will do what I can for the moment,’ he promised her lamely. She knew it was as good as she was going to get.

‘Thank you. I will personally keep you informed of all our progress, once a day at the minimum.’

‘Don’t take too long about things,’ Rafiq began, ‘because if you do, this estate will burn-’

There was a series of small explosions outside the shop. Pop-pop-pop. Roscoe knew exactly what had caused them. Petrol bombs. It was a sound embedded into her psyche, a sound she had heard for the first time in 1981 when, as a probationer PC, she had been part of one of the many police support units sent to assist Merseyside police when the Toxteth area of Liverpool blew up into a major riot. She had heard the noise in anger several times since.

A wall of flame blew up against the shop front, followed by a buffeting surge of hot air.

Rafiq growled, ‘It’s already started.’ To the girl on the till he shouted, ‘In the back, now,’ and jerked his thumb to emphasise the order.

He started toward the front door of the shop but halted after one stride when the door was kicked open and two youths with balaclavas pulled down over their faces burst in. Each carried a petrol bomb — a milk bottle half filled with fuel, oily burning rag stuffed down the neck. They only seemed to be bits of kids, Roscoe thought quickly. Couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. But they looked evil, all in black. Terrifying. She could not help but draw a breath.

They raised the bottles. One screamed, ‘Have these, you black twats.’

‘Get down!’ Roscoe shouted. She threw herself at Rafiq and dragged him to the floor behind the counter. As she moved she saw the petrol bombs arc through the air, spinning slowly, almost in slow motion, flames whipping round like a Catherine wheel.

The bombers scarpered, screaming gleefully.

The bottles landed virtually simultaneously on the hard floor in front of the counter. Petrol and flames sprayed everywhere. Roscoe and Rafiq huddled down behind the counter. For a few moments the heat above them was intense. Tongues of orange flames licked across the counter top, then died back.

Roscoe could not stay down for long. Christ, she thought, what’s happened to Dave?

Another explosion, this time a massive one, boomed outside.

Dave Seymour’s eyes jumped open as the first three petrol bombs hit the wide paved area between where he sat in the car and the Khan’s shop front. All three ignited with a powerful whoosh. He saw two youths kick the shop door open and enter, each holding a lighted petrol bomb.

Before he could open the car door, the front windscreen was smashed by someone wielding an iron bar. The side window was broken by another person, sending pieces of glass into his face and his clothing. Then the rear window went. There must have been a dozen of them surrounding the car, all brandishing iron bars, bats or chunks of wood, all wearing black hoods or masks.

Seymour’s insides contracted and he knew he was in deep trouble.

One of them hurled a petrol bomb into the car through the hole in the windscreen. Seymour saw it coming and cowered away, but there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do, it landed on his lap but did not smash.

Seymour had a moment of relief. Just a moment.

As he picked up the flaming bottle the lighted wick dropped out of the neck. Petrol gushed out over Seymour’s thighs and groin. It ignited.

‘Cop bastard! Cop bastard,’ the people surrounding his car chanted mercilessly. There was laughter and triumph in their voices. ‘Burn you bastard, burn!’

Seymour screamed horribly. He managed to open the door and fell out of the car onto his knees, desperately trying to bat out the flames with his bare hands. Where one flame went out, another came to life. Bigger. Hotter. Taking a better hold on his clothing, licking up his shirt front towards his face. ‘Help me, help me,’ he screamed.

No one did.

Somehow he got to his feet and staggered towards the shop.

‘Cop bastard, cop bastard,’ rang in his ears. ‘Burn! Burn! Burn!’

Behind him more bombs smashed around the CID car. It went up in flames.

Roscoe had had enough petrol bombs thrown at her during the days when she did riot training to know not to be afraid of them. ‘Petrol reception’ the classes had been mis-called. But unlike the majority of the training she had done in the police, the lessons learned about petrol bombs had stuck with her — because they had been about self-preservation. They had taught her that if you kept your eyes on the bombs as they came towards you and made sure they didn’t hit you on the head, they did not present too great a personal threat. They looked effective, frightened the living daylights out of people, made for good TV but, if treated with respect, they were not something to worry about too much.

Having walked through pools of blazing petrol during those training sessions — albeit kitted up with stout steel toe-capped boots, flame retardant overalls, protective masks and headgear — she knew it was quite feasible to walk through flames unscathed — if you were quick enough and didn’t admire the countryside along the way. Although not exactly dressed for the part, she knew she had somehow to get through the flames and see what was happening to Dave Seymour.

‘Call the fire brigade,’ she instructed Rafiq before turning towards the flames and smoke on the other side of the counter. Thick black smoke was hanging just below the ceiling, beginning to fill the shop with its deadly vapours. She put a hand over her nose and mouth, protected her eyes with the other, took a deep breath of clean air and ran.

The fire tried to catch her as she leapt through it. She could feel incredible heat beneath the soles of her shoes and the flames shooting up her legs, underneath her skirt. It was only momentary. In a split second she was through the flames, emerging from them like a phoenix. Unscathed.

Which could not be said for Dave Seymour as he hit the shop door, bursting it open and tumbling through, twisting and writhing. He was ablaze.

Seymour could not see anything that made any sense to him. His vision was a blur, an out-of-focus lens disorientating him. Neither could he hear anything. The chants behind him turned into an all-encompassing, rushing and booming noise, surrounding him completely, like being deep underwater. He could feel the fire. Burning him, frying him — from his belly to the underside of his chin.

He knew he was screaming, knew he was being burned alive.

Roscoe reacted without a second’s thought or moment’s hesitation. A surge of grade-A adrenaline sluiced into her system. She dived for Seymour instinctively thinking: Get him down, get him on the floor, smother the flames.

She grabbed one of his arms, but in his own blind panic he wrenched it away from her, lost his balance and crashed into a wire magazine display. He stayed on his feet and staggered down the main aisle of the shop, fresh produce on one side, tinned goods and hardware on the other. Still screaming, writhing, twisting.

‘Dave!’ Roscoe bellowed — to no effect. She lunged for him again and leapt onto his back, riding him, trying to over-balance him and take him down, put him to the floor. ‘Get the fuck down!’ she hissed through clenched teeth.

At the end of the aisle, he crashed into the chilled food display. Seymour fell over, but backwards, onto Roscoe who suddenly found herself trapped under his bulk.

The fire blazed up him. He screamed again.

Rafiq appeared from behind the counter, moving quickly through the last of the flames from the petrol bombs. He was holding a fire extinguisher which he directed at Seymour. Within seconds Seymour had been put out. Rafiq then turned what was left in the extinguisher onto the petrol bomb flames.

Roscoe heaved Seymour to one side and got shakily to her knees, looking down at the huge detective who lay there, semi-comatose, with severe burns all the way up his front. Her mouth sagged open with shock. The adrenaline left her system as quickly as it had entered. She felt sick, weak and dithery, needing a sugar boost.

Her hand went for her radio to call in for assistance. Before she could speak, every window in the shop was smashed, bricks, half-bricks, rocks, stones, flying through, sending glass showering everywhere. She instinctively ducked down and tried to cover the vulnerable Seymour as the missiles landed all around like meteors crashing in from outer space.